


Good Talk

by seapigeon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Fluffy Ending, Identity Porn, Kink Negotiation, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Painplay, Photographer Bucky Barnes, Post-Avengers (2012), Safe Sane and Consensual, Shrunkyclunks, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seapigeon/pseuds/seapigeon
Summary: When Steve created a secret side business to sell his art, he probably should have anticipated that one day, someone would commission him to draw Captain America.He definitely couldn't have predicted what would happen when he accepted.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 66
Kudos: 501





	Good Talk

**Author's Note:**

> This one is inspired by a prompt from Twitter. For the life of me I cannot remember who posted it, so I'm sorry if it was yours and I didn't credit you! Tell me if you recognize it and I'll be happy to do so.
> 
> UPDATE: The mystery has been solved, the original prompt was posted by [fadefilter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadefilter/pseuds/fadefilter)!
> 
> Anyhow, this was the prompt: "Shrunkyclunks au where Steve is a freelance artist when he’s not saving the world and Bucky is a fan of his work who commissioned him to draw a Captain America fan art."
> 
> Many thanks to [Aliset](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliset/pseuds/Aliset) for acting as beta and sounding board!
> 
> Please enjoy!

It’s not that he doesn’t know about fandom.

Tony made sure he did, gleefully certain that he’d lose his mind at Captain America porn parodies or real person fanfiction. Steve will never understand why people think sex wasn’t a commodity less than a hundred years ago. It’s the oldest thrill there is, and the circumstances of his life - he went to _art school_ , for fuck’s sake - meant he had seen, read, and drawn filthier porn than anything Tony threw at him. Hell, one month in 1938 when he was in danger of not making the rent, he got the last few dollars by giving handjobs. Tony won’t believe him if he says so, so he keeps that to himself. 

Point is, Steve Rogers is not easily scandalized. Not even by the large amount of Steve Rogers/Tony Stark fanfiction in the world, or the Captain America tentacle porn. Maybe, though...maybe he should have seen this one coming.

_Ha. Coming._

Steve rubs his hands over his face. It’s risky to run this side business, but art keeps him sane. And the internet makes it so easy to sell art without the face-to-face that was always required in his art school days.

In another minute, he has to laugh. It’s absurd. This poor soul. He has no idea he’s commissioning Captain America to paint him a shirtless, harness-clad, homoerotic Captain America. It’s…

It’s _perfect._

He is absolutely going to do it.

He clicks _Reply_ and accepts the commission.

  
  
  


It’s a little more complicated than that, though. This guy wants it to be an interactive process. Every now and then Steve streams himself drawing or painting, and Bucky is one of his biggest fans. He didn’t notice it initially. Looking back, though, Bucky has watched almost every stream and left glowing comments. He’s even linked others to Steve’s art.

He’s a genuinely nice guy. It’s obvious that he has good taste, too. Steve smiles to himself and sends Bucky an invite to a private streaming channel for later that night.

  
  
  


“How come you don’t show your face?” Bucky asks, about forty minutes into the stream.

“I have to be careful with my day job,” Steve replies, hoping he’ll be satisfied with that.

“You’d get in trouble if they saw your art?”

“Potentially.”

Bucky makes a face. He isn’t afraid to show himself. He’s kind of cute, actually. He has long brown hair that is half up in one of those man buns that people get so offended over, kind blue eyes, and some really nice bone structure that Steve would love to draw. Maybe he can include a sketch of Bucky as a thank you when he’s done with the commission.

“Speaking of my job,” he says, “I, uh, have unpredictable hours that can be pretty long. So it might take me a while to finish this.”

“That’s fine. Take all the time you need.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes, and Steve concentrates on the art. It’s weirder than he expected to be drawing himself. It feels...almost dissociative.

“What do you do for work?” he asks Bucky, to keep himself grounded.

“You’re gonna judge.”

“No I won’t.”

“Most people do.”

“Most people are jerks.”

Bucky laughs. “No they aren’t.” 

“Well, out with it,” Steve prompts, liking Bucky’s optimism. “If you want.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush slightly and he rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, I’m a photographer. Mostly alt and fetish stuff.” 

Huh. The harness request makes a bit more sense now.

“That sounds really interesting,” Steve replies honestly, because it does. Most people seem to think he should be put off by the way people express themselves now, but he likes it. He _likes_ getting on the subway and being surrounded by colorful people who are living and expressing themselves the way they want. Lord knows he could never do that in 1930s and 1940s Brooklyn. He still can’t do it now. 

Bucky looks surprised. “Oh. Thanks. Most people think that means porn and judge me like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I can believe.” Steve, or rather _Cap_ , gets judged for everything. The way he stands, who he stands next to, microexpressions, things he has absolutely no control over. It’s so much worse in the future than it ever was in the forties.

“They don’t get that it isn’t always sexual, and even if it is, it’s healthy self expression. I can’t handle the purity brigade.”

“They should watch some porn. Might relax ‘em.”

Bucky grins, and oh. There’s some wattage there. This is going to be far more pleasant than he might have anticipated.

“It’s nice to have someone be so cool about it,” Bucky says. “I hate having to explain.”

“Y’know,” Steve says, squinting at a line that won’t quite do what he wants. “My mom raised me on her own. Dad died before I was born. People assumed that meant she was sleeping around. Everybody had a question or an opinion, and at first she’d try to head them off at the pass, explain it before they could bring it up. It didn’t help. So after a while, she stopped explaining. Stopped answering nosy questions, too. She would just stare at people until they got uncomfortable and then _they_ apologized to _her._ I swear it was her superpower.”

“Your mom sounds awesome. Maybe I should try that.”

“It’s all in the look,” Steve advises. “You gotta look at them like the spirit of their grandmothers are inhabiting you.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Bucky says, chuckling. “I’m imagining my Bubbe. Holy shit, could that lady throw shade.” He nods. “I’m gonna try it. Next time someone wants to share their thoughts on my career, or ask dumb questions, I’m just gonna stare.”

“Please report back when you do.”

“Oh, I will.” Bucky is still smiling. “When are you free again?”

Steve hums as he looks through the calendar on his phone. “Thursday? Maybe?”

“That’s not very convincing.”

“Honestly, my schedule is a moving target. It hasn’t stopped me from finishing anything _yet_ but if it becomes a problem I’ll tell you as soon as possible. I’m happy to issue a full refund.”

Bucky waves him off. “No rush. I guess I’ll leave you to draw now instead of distracting you.”

_I don’t mind distractions_ , Steve thinks, _especially not when they’re as cute as you_.

“See you Thursday? Around nine? Maybe?” 

“Definitely maybe.” 

  
  
  


Thursday is a go, though he has to push it back to 9:30 because debriefing ran over. It’s been a week. Counterterrorism isn’t something he enjoys, and there are a thousand reasons why. But it comes with the job and the uniform.

“You seem tired,” Bucky says. How he can figure that out when he only has Steve’s voice and occasionally his hands to go by is a mystery to Steve.

“I am. Work was rough this week. Art always helps, though.”

“What do you do?”

“Homeland security.” Home _world_ security, more like. He definitely understands now why Tony has a few screws loose since the invasion. There is such a thing as knowing too much.

“Oh, wow. Are you supposed to tell me that?”

“Tell you what?” Steve asks blithely.

Bucky smiles. “Well, I appreciate you doing this. You shouldn’t ever feel like you have to, though. It’s kind of an unusual ask.”

Steve lets the moment pass, focusing on the drawing. Last time they talked about what kind of pose Bucky wanted, so he’s working on the rough outline and proportions. His _own_ proportions. Things he’d never paid attention to, except to live in them.

“Hey,” he asks, “did you want this to be photorealistic? Or more illustrative?” It might get _too_ weird if Bucky wants photorealism. He hadn’t thought of that when he accepted the commission.

“Illustrative,” he responds right away. He looks thoughtful for a moment. “I know it seems ridiculous for me to say this, since I’m literally asking you to draw Captain America in nothing but his harness and gloves, but I think sometimes people forget there’s an actual person in that suit.”

“Oh, they definitely do forget,” Steve agrees.

“I’m sure he has his likes and dislikes but a schmo like me shouldn’t be the one deciding what they are. This piece is about fantasy.”

“So, cowl on, then?”

“Is that what it’s called? The helmet mask thing?”

“I think so.”

“Yeah, cowl on, then.”

Steve scribbles a note on the edge so he doesn’t forget.

This is…so much stranger than he could have imagined. He really didn’t think this one through. He’s determined to finish it, though. Figures it wouldn’t be the laugh he expected.

Maybe Bucky picks up on his mood, because he doesn’t say much more.

  
  
  


There are so many layers to being him. One of those nagging things that continually bothers Steve is that so many _do_ forget that Captain America is just a title. Not an identity, or a definition. Captain America is something the government made up to sell bonds. He may as well be Mr. Clean, or Toucan Sam.

But the minute Steve went AWOL in Italy, Captain America became something more. For a brief time Steve had at least some control of it. Now, though...seventy years have passed, the world has changed, and Captain America is a reflection of that. Not of him.

Sure, he still stands for justice and strength and the American spirit. But there’s so much relativism out there that those things mean different things to different people. And right now the prevailing narrative is not one that he cares for, not at all.

A part of him really envies Tony, sometimes. Nobody forgets him in favor of Iron Man. Nobody is unsure who the man in the metal suit is. That man is unapologetically himself. Steve laughs out loud as he tries to imagine someone telling Tony that he can’t speak his mind because it’ll ruin the image of Iron Man.

What’s the solution, though? He’s been over it a thousand times. He can’t quit - doesn’t want to. He can’t separate himself from Captain America without making it look like he’s rejecting the country and its values, which is _ridiculous_ but he knows the PR people are right. The only option is to live like Tony and frankly, he has neither the social nor financial capital to pull that off. 

So it’s here. It’s this. Letting a brand run his life, like he’s been doing since he thawed out.

  
  
  


He makes no progress on Bucky’s commission for over a week. Art is his escape; it’s not supposed to remind him of work.

“Bucky, I’m really sorry, but I have a pretty bad block going right now,” he says, when Bucky connects to their livestream. 

“Oh,” Bucky replies, and his face is genuinely concerned. “Everything ok?”

“I guess.” Steve can hear the shrug in his own voice.

“That was super convincing,” Bucky deadpans.

“Got a lot on my mind, that’s all. I was hoping that talking to you might help me get into the creative mood.”

Is it his imagination, or do Bucky’s cheeks color slightly?

“Okay!” he says eagerly, and yeah, Steve feels better already.

  
  
  


Over the next few weeks, they talk about a little bit of everything. Bucky’s photography, their most interesting clients, food, movies, music, art; the conversation flows easily and they make each other laugh. It starts to feel like friendship, although Steve is keenly aware that it’s hard to be friends with someone when you’ve never seen their face.

“I’m starting to feel a little weird about this,” Bucky says the next night.

Oh, fuck. Steve has been enjoying their chats, maybe even relying on them a bit to lift his mood. He doesn’t want to lose this, whatever it is.

“What do you mean?”

“Am I...I don’t know, objectifying him?”

Ah. Steve’s relief is swift. It’s not anything he’s done; Bucky still wants to talk to him. 

“Captain America isn’t a person,” he replies. “You can’t objectify a costume.”

“Yes you damn well can,” Bucky fires back. “Haven’t you ever seen a sexy nurse outfit on Halloween? You can objectify a role as much as an individual. Doesn’t make it right just because you aren’t specifically harming a person.”

Bucky is absolutely correct. Steve hadn’t thought of it that way.

“Okay. Okay, you’re right about that. But there’s no group to be harmed here, Buck. There’s only one of the guy. Besides, you’re late to the party. The government and the media have been calling the shots for years. Maybe it’s not sexual objectification, but it’s...” he huffs. “The guy literally agreed to be injected with potentially lethal chemicals because he wanted to fight bullies, and somehow actual Neo-Nazis seem to think he’d be on their side and use him as a symbol of American purity or some such bullshit. If that ain’t objectification, I don’t know what is.”

There’s a pause. Bucky looks impressed and a little surprised by his rant.

“Clearly you have opinions on this.”

“Lots of them.”

“So you don’t like the government and the media objectifying superheroes for their own ends, but some rando with a leather fetish is fine?” he asks.

Steve chews the end of his pencil. “You have a leather fetish?”

“Hey. Focus. Answer the question, Steve.”

He sighs. “I don’t know. I guess compared to that horrifying purity and xenophobia narrative, a little good old-fashioned sexual deviance seems like a breath of fresh air. Rebellious, almost.” 

Bucky laughs. He has a lovely laugh.

“Am I wrong?” Steve presses. “The guy’s practically a eunuch in pop culture. In the movies he doesn’t even get to open-mouth kiss the heroines. He deserves a little tongue!”

Bucky is still laughing. “Oh my God. Now I get why you took this commission!” He wipes his eyes. “For the record, he deserves way more than tongue kissing for everything he’s done. If he’s into that.”

“You’re damn right.”

“Okay, okay. You made me feel better. It’s not like he’ll ever see it.”

“Sure,” Steve agrees easily. “It’s for you. Just fantasy. I’m sure Cap would understand. He fought for your American right to have fantasies and a healthy sex life.”

“Holy shit, you’re really good at that,” Bucky exclaims. “You sounded just like him.”

Oops. Steve hadn’t even realized he was doing The Voice.

“Oh. Er, one of my hidden talents.” 

“You could make serious money in the scene, Steve. People would pay to have Captain America ordering them around.”

“Yeah?”

“You have no idea.”

“What about you?” he asks, his mouth completely bypassing the sensible part of his brain. “That part of your fantasy?”

Bucky isn’t cowed by the question at all, and that raises him about 47 notches in Steve’s esteem. “Well, that’s sort of complicated. I do sometimes like being ordered around. But only by people I know and trust. I don’t know Captain America from Adam. So as sexy as he and his voice are, it wouldn’t do anything for me.”

“I keep telling you, Captain America isn’t a person.”

“Steve Rogers, then. Don’t know him, either.”

“Nobody really does,” Steve mutters. This is getting dicey. He knows it, but it’s like he can’t stop himself. “Bucky, how do you...how do you get into the scene?”

Bucky almost vibrates out of his seat. “I can help you set up an Only Fans! I know you don’t like to show your face but if you bought one of those costume cowls you’d be concealed--”

“Not for that, Bucky. SHIELD would sue the everloving fuck out of me for copyright infringement and the government would probably charge me with treason.”

That takes the wind out of Bucky’s sails a little bit. “Huh. You’re probably right.” He pouts. It’s cute. Really, really cute. 

_Thin fucking ice here, Rogers_.

Bucky rallies. “You mean get into it like...you’re a novice?”

“Not exactly a novice, no. Just haven’t been around for a long time.”

He nods. “I’ll e-mail you a checklist, and based on what you’re interested in, I can connect you with people. If you’re comfortable with that, of course. If you’re not, I can have someone else do it.”

“It’s fine. I trust you.” 

He shouldn’t. Talking on these livestreams a couple times a week doesn’t count as knowing someone. But Bucky is so genuine, and so unashamed of who he is. Smart, too. Interacting with him has become a highlight of Steve’s existence. That doesn’t say much about his existence, he supposes, because it’s just simple conversation with a friendly person. He thinks it says a lot about Bucky, though. Frankly, he hasn’t trusted a soul since he woke up in this century.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, aglow with it. “I just...love helping people find what they need.”

“Thank _you,_ ” Steve replies. “I’ll get that back to you when I can. I’m...gonna sign off now, Buck.”

That is the best option. Because he is experiencing some very strong and conflicting emotions at the moment, and he knows very well the feeling of being on the precipice of doing something stupid. 

“All right. Sweet dreams.” Bucky waves, the picture of easy contentment, and then the screen goes dark.

Steve puts his head down on the desk and sighs.

  
  
  


He doesn’t even look at the checklist for a week or two. He still feels like he’s on the edge of something and he wants to be sure before he either backs away or takes a flying leap over.

On day nine, he gets an e-mail from Bucky.

_I’m really sorry if I came on strong the other day. I’ve been told that sometimes I’m so enthusiastic that I push people a little faster than they’re ready, or mistake curiosity for true interest. Or that I make people who aren’t into kink feel like they’re lacking somehow. If that’s what I did, I’m so sorry and I hope you’ll forgive me._

_Bucky_

Ah, fuck. He didn’t mean for Bucky to get upset. He hits reply, and the words...they just pour out.

_Bucky, you did absolutely nothing wrong. I have been so grateful to be able to talk with you._

_Here’s the thing. There’s been a lot of loss in my life. There isn’t really anyone I trust left. I don’t feel safe enough to pursue regular sex and intimacy, let alone kink. There are plenty of things I like, maybe even need, that I haven’t been able to get in a long time._

_I’ve been staring at the checklist. I want to be brave enough to start over. You make me feel like that’s possible._

_I just need time._

He doesn’t sign it. That feels like too much. The feeling of panic after he sends it is more than enough.

  
  
  


Bucky responds within the hour.

_I wish I could express to you how much I GET IT._

_Take all the time you need._

  
  
  


Steve goes to Bucky’s website. He should have done it sooner; he’s not sure why he didn’t. Bucky’s work is really, really good. He’s got an eye for angles, composition, and capturing things that are usually invisible on camera. A lot of his subjects are at least partially nude but that isn’t where the eye lands. It’s their faces - their expressions. All of it is real and complex and unquestionably beautiful. 

There are three self-portraits on here, too. He doesn’t shy away from revealing himself. A sudden stab of jealousy has Steve catching his breath. 

He wants that. He wants that so badly, and it’s starting to become a problem.

  
  
  


_Hi Buck. Chat later?_

_Of course! What time?_

_9?_

_I’ll be there._

  
  
  


They talk a little bit. It’s still easy, and it relaxes Steve enough to say the thing he really wants to say.

“So, uh...I want to show you my face, Bucky.”

“Please don’t feel like you have to.”

“I don’t. It’s what I want. I don’t like feeling like this is one-sided.” _Like I see so much more of you than you do of me._

“I’ve never felt that way, Steve. Never.”

“That’s good.” He fidgets a little. “I’m kinda tired of hiding, though. Is it okay if I switch my camera?”

“Yeah.”

He takes a breath, and before he can think about it any more, the camera is on him. He can see his own face on the screen and - eeeuuughhh. He focuses on Bucky instead.

Bucky is smiling radiantly. “Hey,” he says. 

“Hi,” Steve returns, trying to smile back. He knows there are only seconds before Bucky realizes who he’s been talking with. He’s watched people recognize him hundreds of times now, and it’s starting. Like clockwork, Bucky’s brows drop slightly, and he tilts his head.

_Here we go._

Bucky blinks a few times, and then he leans in closer to the screen.

“Ohhhh,” he says, voice choked, as his face goes white.

And then…

And then Bucky disconnects.

  
  
  


Steve thinks briefly about jumping out his eighth story window. Won’t kill him, though. Nope, definitely not, if the plane crash didn’t. Not worth the effort or the pain.

Really, what did he expect?

This is...this is just it. This is his life. Even when he’s somebody he’s nobody. Surrounded by people, but always alone.

His eyes land on the drawing. It’s almost done.

He’ll finish it and send it to Bucky, along with a refund. Then he’ll close his art shop. There’s no point. 

The computer chimes as he’s closing it. He doesn’t reopen it. If it’s important they’ll e-mail him. If it’s _really_ important, they’ll text or call.

He’s good for whatever they need. Call him a sucker; that hasn’t changed.

He crash-lands on his too-soft bed and lets the sadness drag him down into something like sleep.

  
  
  


There’s a sound like a klaxon, and it pulls his soldier brain up, up, sharpening his consciousness until he realizes it’s just his phone. It’s never made this sound before.

“What the…” he rasps, fumbling for it.

“My apologies, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS’s smooth voice emits from the phone in his hand. “But an individual has attempted to call you on your livestream line twenty-two times, and he seems quite anxious to reach you. I’ve taken the liberty of routing his call to this phone. If you answer he won’t be able to view your contact information. It’s a secure line.”

Hm. Probably Bucky wanting to tell him off.

“And if I don’t answer?”

“I can compose a reply for you, or simply allow him to continue calling the livestream line.”

It’s best to get it over with, probably.

“Put it through,” Steve says wearily. “Audio only. Please.”

“Certainly.”

The phone starts to vibrate immediately. With a sigh, Steve answers.

“Hello?”

“Oh thank God. Steve! I am so sorry, I can’t believe I did that. I hate myself. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“For what?”

“For hanging up on you! I was so embarrassed and I panicked. My arm just _did it_ , like, I just reacted, and it was such a dick move and I’m _so sorry_.”

He can’t comprehend this. “Are you...apologizing to me?”

“I know, I know it’s not enough and I don’t blame you at all if you want to just tell me to fuck off--”

“What? What are you - no. No. Bucky, I don’t want you to fuck off, are you crazy?”

“Probably!” he nearly shouts, and it’s then that the distress in his voice registers fully. “Only crazy people hang up on their friends when they’re being brave as hell and letting themselves be vulnerable for the first time in literal decades!”

“Oh-- oh Bucky no, it’s--” 

But he can’t quite manage to say _it’s all right_. Because goddamn, did that hurt.

“Put on your video. Please. I want to see you. I want to see you, Steve, if you’re willing.”

_I want to see you._

Steve feels like he could cry, because he knows Bucky means that. 

“Okay,” he says, voice rough, eyes welling a little. “Let me get back on the computer.” 

  
  


Bucky won’t hear of him finishing the drawing.

“Absolutely _not_ , do not even think about it!” he says, perturbed. “I can’t believe you. I may be the jerk who commissioned it, but _you’re_ the jerk who accepted!”

“I thought it was ironic,” Steve protests. “And kind of funny. Not the request itself, just the situation!”

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Bucky growls.

“I have been accused of that.”

“Well, now you’ve been tried and found guilty by a jury of your peers.”

Steve is smiling. It feels fragile but so, so good. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“I’m sorry, Buck.”

“Are you?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah. I never wanted to embarrass you. You should know that I don’t take art requests I don’t like.”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and surveys him.

“Apology accepted. You’re hereby sentenced to letting a strange man from the internet photograph you someday.”

“You’re not strange.”

“That’s what you think.”

Steve smiles again. He can’t stop.

Bucky huffs a dramatic sigh. “It is really hard to pretend to be mad at you when your face looks like that.”

_Same, honey, same._

Oh, there’s that thin ice again. 

  
  
  


A month or so later, Steve finally works up the courage to fill in the checklist. He and Bucky have been talking every day, sometimes for hours. Things should be different but they’re not; Bucky treats him exactly the same as he did before the big reveal. That’s how Steve knows nothing will change once all the checkboxes are filled in and Bucky knows all his secrets.

Bucky calls him the night after he sends it back. Nothing seems surprising to him, but then again, Steve is sure he’s seen a lot in his line of work. The one thing he does remark on is:

“You like pain?” he asks.

“Yeah. Not all the time, and, not, like, torture, but...enough to...let you know you’re alive, I guess?”

“I don’t like pain,” Bucky replies. “I live with it every day. Most of what I like is what makes me forget about it.”

By now, he’s seen the burns on Bucky’s arm. He suspected that it pained him, because every now and then he’ll wince and rub at his shoulder when they’re talking.

“Like what?” Steve asks.

“Submission helps. Having to focus on something and please someone makes it go away. It makes me feel really good to make others feel good.”

“Me too. That last part, anyway. I’m...not the best at following orders, unless I really trust and respect the one giving them.”

“Understandable.” Bucky is quiet for a moment, rearranging things on his desk. “Did you mean that, back when you said there was no one left that you trust?”

Steve nods. “But I also meant it when I said I trusted you.”

Bucky frowns. But then he looks up at Steve and says, “I think I have an idea.”

  
  
  


Bucky lays his idea out, and...it sounds _great_. Steve is ready to jump in, full steam ahead, but Bucky insists upon multiple further discussions to clarify things. After a while it starts to feel like he’s stuck in one of those meetings he loves so much where they keep talking around the same topic without any real progress or solution. And, well, Steve Rogers has never been known for his patience.

“Bucky,” he says, after the fourth discussion, “I told you yes. Why can’t we just go for it?” 

“Discussion and negotiation are important. I don’t want to fuck it up, okay?”

“You won’t. I know you won’t.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He fidgets on the screen. “It’s just that...this is...a bit outside my comfort zone. I should have told you sooner.” 

Steve’s stomach sinks. He’s seen Bucky’s checklist; things align. They’re a good match. But if he isn’t totally comfortable, this is where they pump the brakes. He’s learned that much from these discussions. 

“Then forget it. You shouldn’t do something you don’t want to do.” Bucky had only said that to him a hundred times. Wanting to please didn’t mean compromising your own limits.

Bucky pushes his fingers through his hair. “That’s the thing. I _do_ want to do it.”

It’s then that he realizes there is something Bucky isn’t telling him. It’s mildly shocking, since they’ve been very honest with each other - or so he thought. Something tells him to wait Bucky out instead of getting upset. Not everything is easy to share.

Bucky sighs. Then his spine sets, like he’s made a decision. 

“You have time to grab a drink?”

  
  
  


Bucky is already wonderful to look at on a screen. In person, in three living, breathing dimensions, he’s an absolute joy. This is the first time, though, that the conversation doesn’t flow easily. Bucky looks nervous, and he’s making his drinks disappear at a rate that won’t bode well for him in a few hours. When his third arrives, Steve puts his hand over it before he can pick it up.

“Bucky. Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes down.

“For what?” This is a familiar conversation.

“You’ve been so open with me.”

Steve moves his hand. He needs a sip of his own drink for this, although he knows it won’t do a damn thing. “Was that a mistake?”

“No!” Bucky exclaims, head snapping up. “No. I just haven’t been as open with you, and that’s not fair if we’re going to go ahead with this.” 

“You gave me time. If you need some now, just say the word.”

Bucky snorts a humorless laugh. “Steve, I’ve had years. Any more time and I’ll be dead.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for another three minutes, at least. Then he pounds half of his beer in one long gulp.

“It’s a long story,” he warns, beer foam on his upper lip. He wipes it away with his sleeve a second later.

“Not moving unless aliens invade again,” Steve returns. “Though I am gonna order you some fries.”

Bucky’s eyes are nakedly thankful as he starts to talk.

  
  
  


It is a long story, and a painful one.

Steve knows now how Bucky joined the Army right out of high school. Did a few tours and got real good at both marksmanship and leadership. He was liked and more than competent. Soon enough he was a sergeant, and decided to make the military a career. 

But many stories like this don’t end happily, and Bucky’s is no exception. A mission went bad, he lost several men under his command who were friends, besides, and he nearly lost his arm. He couldn’t shoot a gun anymore, and his confidence was shattered. The guilt was stifling.

Steve knows that feeling only too well. He’s made mistakes and lost men, too.

Bucky was honorably discharged with no plan, no money, and the world’s shittiest gift basket of guilt, PTSD, and chronic pain.

“I had no idea what I was going to do. It got to a point where I would go to bed at night hoping I wouldn’t wake up in the morning.”

It physically pains Steve to think about Bucky hurting so badly. He reaches out to clasp his hand and - oh. That’s nice. It’s the first time they’ve touched. Hopefully not the last.

Bucky squeezes and doesn’t let go. He stuffs a couple of fries in his mouth with his other hand, chews determinedly, and then goes on. 

“I was working in a department store just to pay the rent. One day the photo guy didn’t show, so they threw me in there. I had never really had any interest in taking pictures but I was good enough that they just gave me the other guy’s job. I saw how happy it made people to get a good family photo or whatever, and it made me want to actually try. So I looked for opportunities to make more money and get more experience so that eventually I could buy my own equipment.”

Steve thinks to himself that it’s not unlike marksmanship. Photography takes patience, planning, discipline, and an eye that not everybody has. He’s realized that, listening to Bucky talk about his job. He has to wait for the right moment, in the right setting, with the right conditions. That’s how you get the best shot. He wonders if Bucky has put that together.

“There are networking websites for models. I figured models always need photos, right? So I signed up. I worked with a few alternative models, and it was like there was this whole new world that opened up to me. They were so nice. They answered my questions and pointed me in the right direction, and--” he pauses, shaking his head, a hint of a smile on his face, “it was like coming alive again.”

“It is,” Steve breathes. They’re his first words in half an hour. “I was an angry kid, especially after my mom died. It was life-changing to find people who would let me take it out on them and like it. Or who could knock me down a peg, make me break down and let the feelings out.”

Bucky nods. “For me it was letting go. Letting someone else be in control, doing what they wanted, being told I did a good job. It chased everything out of my head. Nothing hurt.” 

Steve is beginning to understand. “But being in control of someone else?”

“Scared the shit out of me after everything. I liked being a sergeant in charge of people, Steve. I took care of my men and got things done. The power felt good. But I fucked that up so badly…” 

“You’re not omniscient. You can’t control for everything,” Steve says. Word for word, it’s something Peggy told him after a mission gone bad. It took a while to sink in, and it didn’t go far to comfort in the moment of loss, but with distance, it’s the simple truth.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, wan. “I guess the point is...like you said a while back...I want to be brave enough to start over. You need it, and I need it.” 

Steve squeezes his hand and repeats something he’s already said a half dozen times. “I trust you.” 

“So did those guys.”

There’s not much else Steve can say or do. This is Bucky’s battle.

“I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

“What if that’s never?”

“Then I guess we can just be _normal_ friends,” Steve says, smiling and aggressively helping himself to Bucky’s french fries.

“Normal. Riiiight.”

“Picture of normalcy. Nothing weird here at all.”

Bucky’s answering look says that he’s pretty sure Steve has been weird since the day he was born. He would be right about that. Regardless, it gets Bucky to smile again, and that’s all he really cares about.

  
  


It takes less time than he expected. He’s away for a while on a mission, and he and Bucky don’t get to talk for close to three weeks. Steve could pretend he’s okay afterwards, but he isn’t. The mission was halfway across the world, and there, in dusty alleys, he saw Captain America’s likeness in graffiti with the most dreaded words.

_Fascist. Imperialist. Murderer._

He connects with Bucky two nights after he gets back, and it’s like Bucky can read it on him. He can see some kind of switch flipping on the other side of the computer screen as he struggles to explain. That’s _not_ what Captain America is, or not who he was supposed to be, and everything is so twisted. It sure as hell isn’t anything Steve stands for.

He hates this helpless feeling. He can’t undo six or seven decades of cold self-interest and shitty decisions. He can’t take away what America has become to those it’s harmed. 

“What am I gonna do, Buck?” he asks, sagging in front of his computer.

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” Bucky replies, and Steve unconsciously straightens up. _That_ is a voice he’s never heard come out of Bucky before. “You’re going to take a hot shower and then go to bed. And tomorrow, at four, you’re going to be at my house ready to play. Got it?”

His body goes tingly. Steve swallows.

“Got it.”

  
  
  


That’s how he finds himself in Bucky’s house, in his makeshift studio, clad in nothing but boxer briefs and holding two five gallon buckets full to the brim with water with his arms out parallel to the floor. They talked through everything beforehand. He knows exactly what’s expected of him and what Bucky will do. They both know their safewords and can use them at any time. They’re finally on the same page.

Bucky walks a wide circle around him, inspecting his form. He stops directly behind Steve. Steve’s neck prickles at the proximity.

“Normally, I’d say ten minutes is long enough. But for you? Thirty.” Bucky touches him, just a graze of fingers along the back of his neck and down between his shoulder blades. His skin breaks out in goosebumps and his mind sort of... _wobbles_.

“That all?” he asks, his voice strange and breathy.

Bucky smirks. “Don’t spill on my floor, Steve.”

  
  
  


Not even three minutes pass before his muscles start to burn.

At five, that burn edges over into pain. It hits him in waves, like a lighthouse battered in a storm. Those images flash behind his eyes: a bleak star-spangled warlord, words like knife wounds. _Fascist, imperialist, murderer._

At ten, it’s agony. And he fucking welcomes it. He deserves it. Is reborn in it.

It’s clarifying. Like running through a wall of fire. Like being in that Vita Ray chamber and knowing he’d come out with the means to do the things he’d always wanted.

He can do this.

_He isn’t this._

Bucky’s voice comes to him from what seems like very far away.

“Steve. I’m going to take some pictures of you now, okay?”

Steve had already given his consent, with the knowledge that he could revoke it at any time and the certainty that those pictures would be deleted the second he asked. He nods, eyes closed.

“Look at me.”

He does. Bucky is actually very close. His skin _aches_ for another touch with an intensity that is unexpected.

“Answer out loud. Is it okay for me to take pictures of you?”

“Yes. Yes.” 

Bucky reaches out and cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. Steve chokes back a moan. It’s so simple, so innocent, and it feels _so_ good. He forgets the pain in his arms, and his heart. Nothing exists but Bucky’s hand where it contacts him - an electricity he hasn’t felt in so long. 

“You don’t have to hold back. Not with me.”

Bucky’s eyes are bright and exhilarated. Instinctively, Steve knows he’s not feeling any pain right now. None at all. And it’s from this.

“You’re doing so good, Stevie. So good. Fourteen more minutes. You can do it.” 

He will hold this pose until the end of time, if it means Bucky doesn’t hurt. 

  
  
  


He’s conscious of the camera clicking for a minute or two. But his mind is slipping now, merging with the pain. It’s peaceful. There is nothing but the goal. It’s the only reason he exists, and the only thing he needs to worry about.

_I can do this_.

Time drifts.

“You’re beautiful,” Bucky whispers in his ear. The warmth of his breath makes Steve’s knees shake a little. He doesn’t spill the water, though. He won’t do that. He’d rather die. “Are you ready for the nipple clamps?”

He’s ready to pitch himself into a fucking _volcano_ for Bucky Barnes.

“Y-yes. Please.”

“Aren’t you sweet.”

He is not, but Bucky will find that out in due time.

The first clamp is cold, and he can’t control the whine that comes out of him. His nipples got a lot more sensitive after the serum and the clamp _hurts_ , a sharp, screaming, incisive pain that’s different from the steady burn in his arms. The second one is even worse. His whole body wants to tremble with it but he can’t. He _can’t_.

“Two minutes. Two minutes, Steve. You’re almost there.” Bucky kisses the side of his neck and _fuck_ , fuck, fuck, it hurts and feels so good at the same time that his brain doesn’t know what to do. The source of his real pain is long forgotten. It’s just a fight with his body now.

“I can...do this all day,” he gasps out.

“Yeah?” Bucky purrs, and Steve knows he’s in for trouble. Sure enough, Bucky tugs at one of the clamps, and he’s not gentle. Steve’s vision goes black and he nearly screams. But he grits his teeth and bears it; he won’t give in. Not even when Bucky goes for the second clamp, tugging it, too, and flicking his thumbs over the excruciatingly sensitive tips of his nipples.

Steve pants and groans, eyes rolling back. Oh, sure, he’d been spanked many a time, even flogged, bent into staggeringly uncomfortable positions by men and women alike before the serum. Not to mention the roughly ten thousand times he’d been hit so hard he saw different dimensions. And none of that, not one single thing, can hold a candle to this.

He opens his eyes. Bucky is right there, eyes locked on his, fist curled around the chain that joins the two nipple clamps. He gives it one last vicious tug that almost does Steve in---

And then a timer is beeping, and Bucky lets go and releases the clamps, whispering to him _it’s over, you did it, I’m so proud of you._ Steve sets the buckets down and promptly starts shaking so hard that Bucky has to steady him. 

He goes down to his knees and just _gasps_ for breath. All he can see is the floor. The dry floor. He didn’t spill, not one drop. He did it.

_I can do this_.

“So good,” Bucky murmurs, stroking fingers through his hair. “You’re amazing.”

Steve shudders. Bucky’s hand feels like heaven, like a divine reward for the dull throb of his entire upper body. He curls into the other man - this _miraculous_ man - and just lets the tears run out of his eyes until there’s nothing left.

  
  
  


“Thank you,” he rasps, from under approximately twelve blankets, when he is capable of rational thought again. “That was incredible.” 

Bucky is still close enough to be touching. The contact makes Steve feel rooted - something he hasn’t felt even once since waking up. A fresh wave of endorphins washes over him as he watches Bucky fuss on his tablet. A second later he looks up with a beaming smile. 

“Yes, it was. You were...I can’t even describe.”

“You, too.”

“I wasn’t too rough?”

Steve shakes his head. “And it didn’t bother you? Hurting me? Being in charge?”

Bucky chews his lip. He doesn’t like pain, this much they know, and neither of them were sure how he would feel to be doling it out to someone else, even when that someone wanted it. And his other fears were a lot to face, even if _he_ wanted it. 

“It’s hard to explain, but...I knew...I knew it was what you needed.”

It was. God, it was. 

“Steve?”

“Hm.”

“When was the last time…”

There’s a pause.

“Last time what?” Steve asks.

“Never mind.”

He lets it go, because he suspects Bucky already knows the answer to whatever he was going to ask. 

  
  
  


Steve is only too happy to return the favor the next week, when Bucky’s having a bad time with his chronic pain. The winter is always worse, he says, and some days the medications don’t bring the pain down enough to be tolerable. The solution is simple.

Steve goes over, and the minute the door is closed behind him, he pulls his fingerless leather gloves on and gently catches Bucky’s long hair in his fist.

“You in the mood to be ordered around?” he asks. “‘Cause I’m in the mood to be giving orders, if it makes you feel better.”

Bucky blinks at him. Steve lets go and peels the zipper of his hoodie down. He’s bare-chested underneath. He shrugs out of the hoodie and gets to watch Bucky’s pupils dilate in real time as he realizes Steve is wearing the shield harness.

“Yes. Yes, sir,” he gulps out. “Whatever you want, sir.”

  
  
  
  


It goes on that way for a few months. Nothing sexual, but they get to know each other’s bodies and preferences in practice, and they don’t skimp on physical touch or affection. Bucky clocked him from minute one; Steve had gone so long without a caring touch that it took him completely apart when it came from someone he trusted.

He’s wanted to kiss Bucky every time. He’d fall into his bed in a heartbeat. But that isn’t a decision he gets to make for Bucky, nor one he wants to push. Steve knows a relationship with him will never be a normal one, and that’s a lot to ask. Bucky’s given him so much already.

So there’s a little ache each time, when Bucky is so close, so perfect. It’s no secret that Steve’s body reacts to him, although many times he doesn’t even notice it, he’s in so deep. It’s only later, when he feels that telltale soreness, that he knows how turned on he must have been. He savors that bit of discomfort; it’s a reminder of how good Bucky is to him, and how lucky he is to have found him.

  
  
  


Little by little, Steve emerges.

He starts to find things he treasures in each of his Avengers teammates, and in the world around him. It’s different, but that isn’t inherently bad. Unfamiliar becomes familiar, and slowly, slowly, the world that had been knocked off its axis seems to right itself.

He speaks up and stands firm.

He says no when he wants to, and yes when he wants to, without a care to what others will think. 

He reminds people who he is, and who Captain America is meant to be.

Some people are really upset by that, and some are ecstatic. Either way, Steve feels like himself again, in a way he hasn’t since he was small and asthmatic and mad at the world.

“You’re _happy_ ,” Natasha accuses one day, green eyes narrowed at him.

“I guess so,” he allows, and dodges the Widow’s Bite she launches at his head.

  
  
  


That’s how it is, until one day nearly a year later.

Bucky has him planking today. Google told them that the world record for planking is 8 hours, 15 minutes, and 15 seconds. They do not have time for Steve to go that long, although neither of them doubts he could. Bucky sets him the task of an hour, and quite literally eats his lunch off Steve’s lower back.

It hasn’t been a full hour, though, when Bucky tells him to take a break. His sides and abs are smarting but it’s far from his limit.

“What’s the matter?” Steve asks, in the pleasant haze that this kind of thing always sinks him into.

Bucky is looking at him with a very serious expression on his face.

“Steve, I want to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“I would...really like to get you back in the plank, but on my bed. And once you’re there, I’d really like to put my dick in your mouth. You can say no. Please say no if you don’t want that. It won’t change anything. I don’t--”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Steve interrupts.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Bucky looks startled. It makes Steve laugh; did he really think there was a chance Steve would turn him down?

“All right, tough guy. Let’s go. I’m tacking an extra ten minutes on for you laughing at me.”

  
  
  


If there’s a heaven, it’s this: this gift of a body straining to please, a warm hand in his hair, Bucky’s cock thick and heavy on his tongue. Steve can’t move; he just has to hold steady and trust. Bucky is in control and Steve knows he’ll take care of him. Bucky knows that, too. The gifts they’ve given each other can’t be understated.

He’s aware of his own arousal this time. The roar of it grows stronger and stronger as he senses Bucky getting closer to orgasm. His erection hangs heavy between his legs, the head just brushing the comforter when Bucky’s movements move him. It is the sweetest torture he’s ever known, his muscles having to adjust to keep him upright when they’re already so taxed, layered upon the barely-there stimulation. Bucky is thrusting slow and deep into his mouth now, and there’s the fight against his gag reflex; the next graze of Steve’s cock against the bedclothes is wet. He’s leaking, desperately aroused. He has no idea if the timer has gone off or not and does not care.

“That feel good?” Bucky breathes, pressing his thumb into the corner of Steve’s mouth alongside his cock. Steve can only moan in response. It’s so good. It’s everything. “Mm. Yeah, look at you. Wish I could take a picture.”

His _touch_ , God, intentional fingers down the line of Steve’s back, over his sacrum, blunt nails raking back up, and he _clenches,_ skin prickling, every atom of his body straining toward Bucky.

“‘M gonna come, Steve. You ready for it?”

He has never been more ready for anything in his life. He nods, teeters, almost loses his balance, but he doesn’t. He will never fail Bucky, never. And even if he does, what a privilege that punishment would be.

  
  


“Hey,” Bucky says, sometime later, as they’re wrapped up naked together.

“Hi,” Steve returns, dopey. His balls are aching, but it’s tempered by the long stretch of Bucky’s skin pressed to his.

“Later, you’re going to fuck me until my eyes roll back and I can’t form words. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Bucky cups his face and finally, finally kisses him on the lips with the intensity of a man who knows it’s long overdue. “Good talk.”

  
  
  


The world doesn’t stay that simple, of course. Things happen, and the axis shifts again, but now, Steve has a foothold. His husband. He gets to come home to Bucky every time, and no matter how the universe has battered him, he finds peace.

  
  
  


It’s years later when Steve gets a notification that someone wants to commission him. Bucky had convinced him to keep his art business up and running, and he’s glad that he did. It’s always been an outlet and a link to his past that feels very, very important to uphold.

They’ve managed to keep it secret, though. To this day, no one knows Captain America or Steve Rogers takes commissions and sells art on the side. Bucky, on the other hand, is extremely in demand now, what with being the official photographer of the Avengers.

It always makes Steve smile to think about it. Especially the time Tony lasered a man’s eyebrow off for referring to Bucky as a small-time porn photographer. The memory is warm in his chest as he checks on the roast.

Content that dinner is coming along as planned, he opens the commission and chuckles. It’s from Bucky. Bucky has never commissioned him since that fateful first time. He doesn’t have to; Steve draws whatever he wants for free. But this is for a headshot of a child he’s never seen before.

Bucky is out doing a quick PR shoot, but he’ll be home soon. Steve tries to wait, but finds that he’s so curious that he can’t. He calls him to get the story.

“Who is she, Buck?”

“That’s her, Steve.”

“Who?”

“Our little girl,” Bucky replies, voice thick with emotion.

It takes Steve a moment to catch on. It’s been such a long battle, one he wasn’t sure they were going to win. It’s hard enough to convince an agency to adopt out to two men, even now; add in that one is a superhero, and the other is known for fetish photography, and it’s damn near impossible. 

“They...they approved it?” he asks, emotion clogging his throat.

“Yes. We get her next week. Her name is Eliana.” 

Next week. _Next week_. Next week, at 110, he finally gets to be a father.

“Steve?”

“I’m ok,” he croaks. He is not. “Just...gonna sob into the mashed potatoes, no big deal.”

“Save some for me to sob into. And take out that Veuve that’s in the basement fridge behind Thor’s mead.”

“Will do,” he says, happy tears in his eyes. “See you soon?”

“Less than an hour.”

“I love you.” So much, it’s unbearable sometimes. Just the way he likes it. 

“Love you, too, Stevie.”


End file.
